


I’ll Love You When You’re Dead To Me

by Notsohappycamper



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gender-neutral survivor, Love/Hate, Other, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsohappycamper/pseuds/Notsohappycamper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes time to choose a faction to stand by, Elder Maxson takes it upon himself to nudge the survivor in the right direction. Little does he know, the survivor has already made their choice: to see him burn with the rest of the Prydwen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’ll Love You When You’re Dead To Me

**Author's Note:**

> So Elder Maxson is really the only character in the game that honest to goodness intimidates the living hell out of me, whether it be because we don’t really know much about him and he’s essentially an enigma, or just because of his super aggressive demeanor. Either way, this is a way to get that out of my system. And ya know, the fact that I think he’s incredibly attractive might also have something to do with this as well.
> 
> Sole Survivor with an unspecified gender cause why not.

The Prydwen. That bloated, gray whale hovering in the sky.

I barely know what to think anymore when I look at it, let alone when I step onto it. Nervous excitement. Rising dread. Maybe a little guilt. Maybe a little power.

Pretty much the same way I felt when I watched it float through the midnight sky outside the fresh graveyard of Kellogg, hearing Nick Valentine mutter those haunting words from beside me that still echo in my mind to this day.

‘Our intentions are peaceful’ my ass.

They have no idea that my real intentions lay with the Railroad. And they won’t know until it’s far too late.

“You’ve really got to take better care of yourself, soldier,” Knight-Captain Cade chastises me for what feels like the hundredth time.

Seems the guy makes it his job to be unnecessarily forceful in relocating my shoulder, and only stops messing around with it until I can no longer bite back the pain and wince sharply with a yelp. Bastard has the audacity to nod sagely to himself as I rub at the offending limb.

“I suggest taking advantage more often of the new set of Power Armor you’ve been granted,” he continues, turning away to approach his desk and jot something down on a notepad.

“Right,” I grit out in response, offering nothing more than that.

Little does he know, or anyone else on this ship really, that I hate power armor. With a passion. I can’t stand the way it feels around my body, so confining and restricting. It gets so hot inside that case of metal sometimes that I just want to rip my own skin off. I feel more like a clunky tin can out in the Commons than an agile soldier, so I’ve done my best to avoid the stuff like the plague. Especially after getting the generous gift of the former armor of Paladin Danse. It would seem that word of my avoidance is finally beginning to catch on, however.

“Ah. Paladin,” Elder Maxson greets me suddenly from the doorway.

Both Cade and I perk up at his arrival, completely taken off guard. Seeing as how Cade is just as surprised as I am, I’m guessing Elder Maxson doesn’t make his way into the Med-Bay very often. Which means that he came for a specific reason this time.

Maxson’s gaze settles on me as he steps into the room, brown coat tight around his shoulders, boots heavy on the metal floor. He’s scowling again. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll live to see the day when he’s not.

“Elder,” I voice back. Short and polite.

He nods once, apparently pleased with my response, barely glancing to Cade as the Knight-Captain offers a firm greeting to his superior as well.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Maxson starts, not sounding at all like he didn’t mean to, “but I was wondering if you’ve found time to speak with Captain Kells yet.”

I shift uncomfortably on the red medical cot I’m sitting on while Cade clutches his clipboard and excuses himself from the room with a quick statement about fetching more medical supplies.

It’s bullshit, obviously. I know he doesn’t need any supplies he doesn’t already have in the room. He most likely excused himself because he doesn’t want to hear the conversation I’m about to have with Maxson. I don’t blame him. Everyone on this damn ship knows things between the two of us aren’t exactly pleasant. Never have been. Never will be.

“Not yet, no,” I tell Maxson honestly, watching him slowly step further into the room. Like he’s King, and this is his court. If that analogy holds, then I guess that would make me the peasant on trial before him.

He nudges a wheeled metal tray aside before leaning against the wall directly opposite my cot. Even when leaning at ease, he still manages to hold himself high enough to create the illusion of perfect posture.

I’m half tempted to push myself to my feet, just so that I don’t have to look up at him to meet his eyes.

“I see,” he mutters with a nod, but that little displeased knot between his eyebrows deepens, and he crosses his arms. “You’re aware that we’re unable to finalize the Project until you do so, correct?”

His tone is stern, but painted up as casual, like a white grenade in a pile of baseballs. I pull my shoulders back and meet his intimidating gaze head-on. “Absolutely.”

He nods again a few times after a pause, not rising at all to my passive disobedience, absentminded and obviously distracted. The rest of the clean room around us suffers under his scrutiny as he idly looks around, lost in thought all of a sudden.

I glance to the doorway in the meantime. A Knight in Power Armor stalks by on patrol and peers into the room as they pass, slowing their pace to linger on the sight of Elder Maxson for as long as they possibly can. It’s a familiar sight, those helplessly love-struck Knights and Initiates, but after seeing it a million times, it’s still no easier to hold down the annoyed sigh that rises from my lungs.

A sharp look in Maxson’s eyes when they draw my attention again gets his point across more than his following words. “Just make sure you get around to that soon then, Paladin.”

I get the faint feeling he wanted those words to light a fire under my ass. That he wants to watch me scramble and run laps around the Commonwealth just for his sake, in the glorious name of the dear Brotherhood.

Clearing my throat, I lean forward and smile, following his eyes as they drift down to my lips.

“Not that I’m not flattered by it, Elder,” I dare to lilt sarcastically, “but you didn’t come all the way here just to remind me of that, did you?”

There’s a brief pause as he continues to examine me clinically, and all that previous empowerment over making a sly joke at his expense just drains from my body like he’s turned a valve.

Obviously not tickled at all by my teasing comment, Maxson pushes away from the wall and walks towards Cade’s desk. His footsteps are like gunshots echoing off the metal floor. “Of course not. I came here for a medical exam.”

As he settles down in a chair by Cade’s desk to wait, and silence begins to leak into the room, I slowly stop smirking and sitting up so straight. I stop tensing my shoulders like a tightened soldier ready for a command, ready to jump at the drop of a hat. I damn near stop breathing.

The tense atmosphere of the room deflates like a flat balloon, and I slouch and stare down and fiddle uselessly with the dials on my Pip-Boy as we both rest quietly and wait for Cade’s return.

Elder Maxson sits no more than five feet from me, calm, still, and silent. I try not to watch him from the corner of my eye, but end up doing so anyway.

*

“I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me, my friend. Really, I do. I hope you know that.”

I know it. The intense gratitude couldn’t be more evident on his smiling face.

I shake my head to brush off the emotions swirling in the air around us and reach out to punch Danse on one of his thick shoulders. “C’mon. You know I can’t just leave you here alone. After everything we’ve been through? All the feral ghouls and crazy synths and Elder Maxson death-glares?”

That gets a chuckle out of him at least, turning away slightly, like he’s not sure if he should hide his amusement from me or not.

A part of me aches for Danse; an honest and genuine man still so in love with the ideals of the Brotherhood despite what they’ve done to him. He’s still only focusing on the good and ignoring all the bad that infects the very roots of the organization. For God’s sake, he’d would be dead right now, if they’d gotten their way. Still, I can’t help but envy his pure sincerity, his true conviction. There’s not much of that left in the world nowadays.

“You can still head out with me, Danse,” I plead for the third time since arriving at the Listening Post that evening. “You know that. Hell, just come back to my settlement with me. I’ve got some really interesting people there I think would do you well to meet.”

He takes a moment to look around the small, underground bunker for a while, and I can tell he’s weighing his options. Weighing how he’ll choose to start his life anew. Feeling like he’s not really alive right now at all, because his purpose for living was ripped out from under him like a tattered carpet ready for garbage day. He could be killed out there at anytime, shot on sight without question by the people he once trusted and fought to protect, and he’s horribly, fully aware of that.

The level of awareness that normal people just don’t seem to possess on average. He’s so self-aware now, hyper-aware, and I’m happy for him, but in new moments like these, when he falls into bouts of deep, quiet contemplation about the world around him, nothing like how the commanding, headstrong Danse use to behave back in that old police station, it’s a little hard not to see him for what he knows he is now: a machine.

I watch him pace for a bit, already knowing his answer. “Hm... No. Not yet. I think I need a little more time alone. To... come to terms with myself. With my future. I only hope you understand.”

When Danse stops and turns to me now, there’s a faint smile on his lips, but I can see clear as day that overwhelmed fear is practically bathing in his eyes. There is nothing comforting in the way he’s looking at me now. Nothing hopeful or promising. I wish he would just trust me more. I wish he would trust himself more.

“People won’t think this negatively about synths forever, Danse,” I reassure. “I can promise you that. I can swear it.”

There’s another mechanical pause in which he turns away and thinks hard about my words, processing them, before he turns to me again. This time, his eyes don’t quite meet mine. “...Thank you for your kindness.”

What empty words. I almost don’t recognize his lifeless voice when he mutters them.

The look of surprise his tired face morphs into when I stand and move to wrap my arms around him touches me more than his half-sincere words ever could.

He’s slow on the draw, but gets the hang of it soon enough, wrapping his own strong arms around my shoulders and patting my back, like I’m the one who needs comforting instead of him. Hell, maybe he’s not too far off.

A few seconds in though, he stops patting me and just clings to the hug like a lost child. His body is solid and warm, nothing like a cold metal machine, and I tell him so.

I hold him for as long as he needs with all the love of the parent I never was, all that love I never quite got to spend, with not an ounce of judgment in my body for his extreme fear and vulnerability in this moment.

If anything, I hold him tighter because of it.

*

“How is it?” Elder Maxson demands from behind me one afternoon, in the dining quarter of all places.

I’m standing at the counter with a platter of mirelurk meat, and when I turn to search for an empty seat along one of the benches to finally relax after a day of trudging to Danse’s bunker and back, it’s like Maxson has materialized right behind me, standing there with his hands buried in the pockets of his large overcoat. Same scowl, same knot between his eyebrows. I damn near shit myself and drop my dinner to the floor at our feet.

“Er. Uh. Excuse me??” I stumble out, scooting to my left and out of the way of a tired-looking scribe approaching the counter with a small pouch of caps for his dinner.

Elder Maxson doesn’t move an inch from his spot in the middle of the walkway. In fact, people make an effort to move around him, like he’s parting a sea.

“I think you know what I’m referring to, Paladin,” he says pointedly. His eyes dart to the scribe beside us before fixing onto me again. “Our arrangement. I know you’ve been to see it again. So. How is it?”

I barely know what to say to that, so I end up saying nothing at all.

The soles of my feet are a rhythmic ache inside my thin boots, and all I can really think about is how my mirelurk is getting cold on my plate and how Maxson has never stood as close to me as he is right now. It’s disturbing; almost otherworldly, in a way. Like I’m in the middle of a lucid dream.

I can smell the heady cigar smoke leaking from the fibers of his jacket.

He seems to sense that my brain has reached critical capacity by both his question and everything else around me, because he steps back and extends an arm to gesture me down the walkway. With that, he turns and walks down the path he indicated, not once looking back nor slowing his pace, and I just barely manage to grab a plastic knife and fork from the boxes on the counter before hurrying to catch up to his coattails.

Seconds later, to my surprise, I find myself stepping after him into his private quarters, lingering in the doorway and gaping like a fool as he ushers me into the room so he can close the door.

“Now, back to what we were discussing,” he begins, moving around the table in the middle of the room and taking a seat. He doesn’t offer, but I take it upon myself to sit across from him, setting my plate down and feeling a little embarrassed to be the only one with food in this situation.

His arms are crossed, a look that says he means business and demands respect draw on every inch of his face, leaning back in his chair with his legs spread. The definition of a man in charge.

I sit perched on the edge of my chair like it’ll eat me whole if I’m not too careful. The plastic knife and fork are glued to my right fist.

Maxson seems to notice that I’ve never been more uncomfortable in all my 200 years of living, because he offers a tilt of his head down to my roasted mirelurk, reaching across the small table to push an empty glass towards me. How kind.

“Go on. Don’t let me keep you from finishing your meal, soldier.”

He tips an open and half-empty whiskey bottle into my glass, filling it with about an inch of liquor before doing to same to a spare cup on his side of the table.

While all this is happening, I can only hope signs of my distrust and confusion at this entire encounter aren’t showing up too much on my face. I’m already sitting in the guy’s bedroom pretty much, last thing I need is to give him even more of an upper hand.

“So...” I breathe, awkwardly beginning to cut into my food. Maxson’s eyes dart up to my face while his hands work on lighting a fat cigar. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Like I’ve already said,” he states, leaning back in his chair again and regarding me with the look of a deathclaw watching a pathetic mongrel amble past, “I know you’re keeping in close contact with the enemy.”

The way he phrases his sentence, the casual use of that word ‘enemy’, almost gets my blood boiling. I force myself to maintain my composure as I swallow my food and reach for the whiskey, as calmly as if we were two old buddies relaxing and having a drink together. Absurdly far from the truth.

“Thought you said that man was dead as far as you’re concerned,” I mutter, using a finger to nudge the dirty ashtray on the table towards the Elder. His only acknowledgment is a brief glance down. “How exactly could I be in contact with a dead man?”

“You’re not in contact with a dead man,” Maxson counters, his glare deepening at my vague avoidance. “You’re in contact with an enemy machine.”

The smoke from his lit cigar hovers in the air around his face, blurring his features and surrounding him in a hazy, swirling cloud. Definitely not for the first time since I’ve met him, I look at him now and feel real fear. Intimidation. And all the inappropriate desire that comes with going face-to-face with something unyielding and impossibly beyond reach.

The set of his jaw is tense, lips parting briefly to puff out more smoke into the air. I’d be lying if I said the man wasn’t more dangerously attractive in this moment than in any other encounter I’ve seen him in.

It feels intimate, all of this. Romantic, in a way. Old-school and risky and charming. His next words knock that idealistic peg out right from under me, however.

“I don’t mind what you do in your spare time, soldier. Go make friends with machines all you want, if that’s how you choose to waste your downtime. But when your activities directly relate you to a machine that is a well-known traitor to the Brotherhood and everything we stand for, that’s when I need to get involved.”

“Wait...” I cut him off, disturbed by his implications. “You’re watching me?”

The fact that he knows these things about Danse and I means he was personally tracing my footsteps. No one knows about Danse’s whereabouts except the two of us and Haylen.

He must have taken a Vertibird out above the bunker when I left earlier and seen me either coming or going. I quickly rack my brain, but can’t remember for the life of me whether or not there was the whirring of a Vertibird outside while I was speaking with Danse. Even if there was, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, and Maxson must have known that.

“Oh, don’t worry, _Paladin_. I’ve had my doubts about you for a while now,” he bites, as my overworked mind starts going into panic mode. “I’ve caught wind of your operations with this “Railroad”. I think you know exactly where your next mission is going to take you, which is why you’ve been avoiding Captain Kells so adamantly. And who knows what you’ve been plotting with the leader of the Institute in all the time you’ve spent there.”

I can only watch him, speechless, as he pushes away from his chair, stands, and plants his hands on the table, looming in front of me with fire in his eyes.

“I think it’s about time you clarify where your loyalties really lie. Traitor.”

Before my mind can even catch up, my body has already reacted, also rising and stepping away from the table. My glass gets knocked askew when I bang my elbow on the table edge, and it rolls over, whiskey spilling out, spreading over the surface, and dripping onto the floor.

Elder Maxson is quick to right the cup, shaking drops of alcohol from his fingers after he does so.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I exclaim as he wipes his damp hands on his coat. “After all I’ve done for the Brotherhood, and you still don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know that I fully trust anyone I’ve ever met, Paladin,” he snaps back, moving to step around the table. A drop of whiskey lands on his right boot and leaves a glossy trail as it rolls down to the floor under his feet.

“Where did this even come from?! This is an outrage! You don’t have the right to accuse me like this!” I spout, still trying helplessly to worm out from under his authority. Deacon should be rolling in his bed right now from all these utterly terrible and unconvincing lies I’m telling. He’d be ashamed he didn’t teach me better.

“I believe I have the _only_ right to accuse you,” Maxson snarls in response, eyes pinning me in place. He plants a hand on the edge of the table when he steps around it, and whiskey soaks into his fingerless glove. He doesn’t bother wiping it off this time.

Before I know it, I’ve backed myself against the closed door, probably looking like a cornered cat, I’m sure. When my back touches the hard metal, a surge of energy and adrenaline at the threat before me pushes me to hold my shoulders back and not react when Maxson reaches out. I would have flinched. But I don’t.

As he grabs my upper arm and holds it tight, I stare into his hard, cold eyes and glare right back.

“Say it then...” he whispers, voice deep, low, and void of options. “Swear your loyalty to the Brotherhood of Steel. Swear your loyalty to _me_.”

My mouth falls open, but nothing ever makes its way out. I can only huff a short breath out into his face instead.

Maxson’s body feels huge this close up. It’s impossible to brush aside just how bulky his shoulders are, how broad his chest is. His grip on my arm, strong and firm. Unrelenting.

I smell cigar smoke on his breath and whiskey on his fingers and feel dizzy with powerlessness. He thinks I’ll just roll over for him, like a dying dog, and accept his dominance, and maybe a part of him is actually right.

On impulse, in an effort to regain control, I throw an arm around his neck, over that thick fur collar of his, and pull him close in a mockery of a hug. His hand not on my arm moves immediately to my side, trying to put a barrier between us, but I anchor my arm and yank his body closer regardless.

We both pause for a tense second, breathing deep and even, until I press my face to his cheek, feeling the rough scratch of his beard on my skin.

“You’ll burn in hell for what you’ve done...” I breathe into his ear. “All of you will.”

We both know I’m right.

In the moments that follow, he’s thinking hard about what I’ve said, but struggling with everything he’s got not to show it. I can only tell from the way his grip loosens and how he audibly swallows before clearing his throat and abruptly releasing me. Then he takes a step back to put a great deal of distance between us, still glaring at me like I’ve murdered his mother in front of him.

I wet my lips and commit the sight of him in this moment to memory, because who knows when I’ll get a chance like this ever again.

“You better give me one reason why I should even consider giving you a chance at redemption,” he growls, aggression rolling off of him in waves. It’s obvious that he’s trying to regain his composure while making it seem like he’s doing anything but. “And you better think of something fast. Because, trust me, you don’t want to be my enemy right now.”

“I’m sure, Arthur,” I reply dryly, fixing my clothes.

I don’t miss the way his eyebrow twitches when he hears his first name. Nor am I missing the frenzied desire still lingering in his eyes. Though, I’m sure there’s already enough of that written all over my face as well.

“Yes, I’ve been to see Danse,” I say now in calm voice, planting my feet. There’s no going back now, I decide, so might as well throw my entire body to the wolves. Give it to me. Get angry for me, you son of a bitch. “Yes, I’ve been to the Railroad, and yes, I’ve spoken to my son at the Institute.”

Maxson’s fists ball at his sides, but I don’t take my eyes off him as I continue. “I trust Danse with my life, if we’re being honest. He’s an amazing man. I also appreciate what the Railroad is trying so hard to accomplish. And no one could ever stop me from loving my son.”

By this point, Maxson’s hands are almost shaking. For a weapon to blow my brains out, I’m sure. He looks like he’s ready to bolt across the distance between us and wrap his hands around my throat to throttle the life out of me.

I will my voice to stay steady in the face of possible death and hope he can clearly see the cruel taunt in my eyes. “Yes, all of these things are true about me, Maxson.”

I smile.

“And there’s absolutely _nothing_ you can do about it.”

It actually doesn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would when he slams his body against mine.

I think my head bangs hard against the metal wall, but the pain never really registers to my mind. He might have punched the wall beside my head or bitten my neck or pressed his knee between my legs in those first few seconds. It’s a little hard to tell.

All I really know for sure after the dust has settled is that his coat is half-off, clinging only to his thick forearms, his chest is pressed firm against mine, and his breath is coming out in strong puffs against my lips. Our foreheads are mashed together, a messy seal that leaves our noses touching and our mouths dangerously close.

I can’t help but smirk again in victory, a spike of arousal washing through my body at the sight of him so upset.

When he growls, I feel it vibrate from deep in his chest. “You just don’t know when to keep your fucking mouth shut...”

His scowl is as pretty as a peach.

I reach up to run a hand through his short hair and grab a fistful, because I just can’t help it. The dark brown locks are not as soft as I’d imagined they’d be. A little courser. A little more dirty.

“And yet you don’t seem to ‘hate’ me at all right now. I’m insubordinate. I’m working against you. Don’t you know not to consort with the enemy, Arthur?” I mock, pushing my hips off the wall behind me.

His hissed reaction is immediate, not even trying to hide it at all. “You’re more than just insubordinate,” he huffs out. His breathing is heavy, like he’s lifting a suit of power armor instead of simply standing in front of me. “We need you for this. You know that. You’re our missing link between the Institute. You’re... You’re-”

“What? What am I?” My hands slide down his arms, pushing the coat sleeves from them. The clothing falls like a body and lands curved around his boots on the floor. “Why do you want me so much, Arthur? You know I’m working against you, but you don’t kill me. Why?”

He grunts, and it sounds more like frustration than pleasure. His hair is still mussed from when I yank on it.

“You’re... special,” he grits out, like it physically pains him to admit such things. “You’re different. You were born 200 years ago, and you’re not a disgusting ghoul. You’re not some horrible mutant. You’re a relic out here... A flawless artifact. Like some irreplaceable piece of Pre-War technology...”

“And so you have to have me? To own me?” I question, repulsion evident in my voice. I shift my body closer and taste the scent of smoke in the air. “Just like you have to own everything else? Like you have to own the whole damn Commonwealth?”

He doesn’t confirm my suspicions with words. The way he groans deep in his throat and rolls his hips hard against me says enough, though.

“Spoiled brat,” I spit, and his arms brace against the wall on either side of me as he commits to grinding in earnest now, little gasps and grunts falling from his lips like drops of wine. I tilt my head back and sigh out heavily, allowing him to press his face into my neck. His thick beard is scratchy and uncomfortable pressed so firmly against my skin, but I let him do it anyway. “You always wanted me, huh? You always needed me.”

A desperate moan is the only response I get.

He’s so young, I realize in this moment. So young. It’s so hard to remember that sometimes. His hips are slow against mine, arching in a firm drag upward, like a kid trying to stay quiet with his first lover under a pile of covers. Inexperienced and needy.

What a damn baby.

I wrestle a hand between us, my knuckles rubbing down the front of his skin-tight black uniform, feeling all the tight muscle underneath, until it comes into contact with what’s firm and straining and impossible to ignore when it’s pressed so tight against the inside of his uniform. I grab and squeeze, breathing in the sharp gasp that my movements produce.

“Look at you,” I mock, and he tilts his head back briefly to groan out towards the ceiling. His eyes are narrow, brows furrowed. Still scowling. “Bending over for the enemy.” A growl spills from his lips, and his hand grips my wrist tight, trying to make my rubbing hand move faster. If anything, I slow down. “What would the Brotherhood say, Arthur? What would they say if they found their leader-”

He grips my wrist tighter, tight enough to hurt, cutting me off, before he shoves his face back into my neck.

“Please...” he whispers out into my skin, voice almost breaking, and it kills me.

I feel his nose nudge against my neck and know that I couldn’t deny him even if I wanted to.

We continue like this for a while, him leaning against me as I neglect my own need and take care of his. The last kind thing I will ever do for him.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t last long at all. He finishes grunting and sighing, hands grabbing my arms tight and hips stuttering against my palm as he makes a mess of the inside of his uniform. I just stand against the wall, itchy and unsatisfied, waiting for him to gather himself. Even if we’d both gotten off, I still wouldn’t be satisfied, I think. No. I won’t be satisfied until I point a gun right at his face and pull the trigger.

“Don’t do this...” Maxson breathes now, finally pushing away from me, looking terribly uncomfortable but still managing to sound commanding. He always has that gift, it seems. “Don’t choose the wrong side.”

“Arthur,” I say, bending over to pick up his coat. I fling it messily over his shoulders while he adjusts himself in his uniform, a slightly confused and bothered look still on his face. My eyes run up and down him, seeing his disheveled hair and clothing, that coat still half-falling off his shoulders, drying sweat on his brow, and I feel like we are finally, finally equal. Or as close to it as we will ever be. “There is no wrong side.”

When I leave his quarters, he tries hard to stop me, grabbing my arm and stepping around to block my way with his large form, demanding that we’re not done talking and getting to the bottom of this, but I just lean forward and press my lips briefly against his rough cheek, and that shuts him up quick enough.

I glance back when I open that door, seeing him standing there, staring at me. Still scowling.

The next time I see him, the next time I board the Prydwen, Deacon is at my side, wound tight with excitement and blood-lust. He offers covering fire until I, wired with psycho and drugged up on med-x, can get close enough through the laser hail to put a shotgun right to Maxson’s head and pull the trigger.

It’s messy. It’s a messy death. It’s old-school and risky and charming.

I immediately shrug his bloodstained coat on, just because I feel like it.

Danse refuses to speak to me for weeks.


End file.
